"The Melting Pot"

Jefferson Junior High

“The Melting Pot”

“Get up. It’s time for school,” Ma hollered as she rapped on the downstairs register with a broom handle.

Every morning, this was the way she commanded us to get out of bed. The register rapping was our alarm clock. I could hear her early morning gagging, coughing, and hacking from her cigarette smoking as I wiped the morning gunk from my eyes. I heard Gordy Kilgore giving the farm report on KDTH Radio playing below in the kitchen. I looked at my new shoes with pride, as those were the only new clothing item I had. I took my pants off the nail in the wall and turned them inside out to shake away any cockroaches. One dropped to the floor and I immediately squashed his orange guts to the vinyl floor beneath my bare heel. I rubbed the juice away on the tattered throw rug at the end of my bed. My bedroom was once a small hallway at the top of the stairs that led to other rooms that once was an apartment. The remaining rooms now belonged to my other siblings.

A couple more shakes of the trousers worn by my older brother two years before and the coast was clear. After putting on my pants and one of my brother’s old shirts I snugged the thin leather belt around me and noticed a loop was missing. “Crap, I hope nobody notices this,” I said out loud.

My big toe broke through the end of the sock. I knew how to roll it perfectly so it wouldn’t be an issue. Finally, with excitement I put my feet into the new shoes and felt like a king. They were black in color and had a shiny bottom from having never been used. I was ready for my new adventure as a seventh grader at Jefferson Junior High School. I grabbed my spiral notebook and number two pencil from the dresser top and went downstairs.  Like the other kids in our neighborhood we bought our school supplies from Walsh’s Five and Dime.

It was on Tuesday, September 5th, 1961 that I first entered junior high school. I was to be twelve years old in a few weeks. Audubon Elementary School was behind me and I would be following in the footsteps of my brother, who was entering the ninth grade at “Jeff,” (as it was known by all who lived in the North End). My sister also went to Jeff. That year she was in the 11^th grade in high school.

“Hey, Dave do you want any of these Wheaties before I start reading the box?” my brother asked as he shut the outside door after getting the home delivered gallon of milk that was on the back patio. He took the glass gallon of milk to the table and set the box of cereal in front of him and was ready to read all four sides while he ate. He would read anything put in front of him. I could have cared less about reading anything at all. It was his trick to read the Des Moines Register whenever it was his turn to dry dishes. He always did this seated on the throne in the bathroom after supper.

I grabbed the box and told him, “Yeah, let me get some before you hog it all.”

I was one of six children that would eventually reach seven in our family. The eldest was my sister, and beneath me in age, were three younger siblings. I was relatively close with my older brother, but each of us learned to be in survival mode, because of the dysfunction in the family unit. Consequently, it was everyone for himself and for the most part, we kids were strangers sharing a house.

Each night Dad drank his Jim Beam watching television in the kitchen while Ma drank her Hamm’s Beer in the living room. They did not speak much to one another. If I had to go to the kitchen for anything, my stomach turned to anxious knots. I feared my Old Man most of my life because of regular beatings that began at age eight and ended at age seventeen. Some of those whippings were justified. Others were not.

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Red McEleecse was giving the sports report on radio station KDTH as Rex’s older brother yelled, “Hey get up you punky seventh grader. Do you think you can find Jeff?” 

Rex’s home was one block from Jeff and like me he was following in the footsteps of older siblings who had been on the honor roll each semester, members of choir, excellent athletes, and members of student council. It was expected that Rex would follow, if not excel in the path his brothers laid before him. He was the youngest of three children and his oldest brother was in the same grade as my sister at Senior High School. His other brother was in the same grade as my older brother.

Rex wore his fresh pressed pants, new button down plaid shirt, and brown shoes that matched his new belt his mother bought for him at Stampfer’s Department Store. The night before, he packed his gym bag with new white shorts, T-shirts, three pair of socks still in the wrapper and white tie-up tennis shoes for physical education class. All of these were purchased from Zentner’s Sporting Goods. He grabbed his gym bag, three-ring notebook containing a plastic zip lined container that housed three pencils, a pencil sharpener, one gum eraser, a protractor, one blue plastic ruler and a package of colored pencils. Out the door he shot not even stopping to have breakfast. After all, it would be just three hours until lunch, and his mother gave him the $1.50 required to buy lunch for the week in the school cafeteria.

Rex had been an excellent student at Marshall Elementary School and would have had perfect attendance had it not been for an injured dog on Rhomberg Avenue. It was the winter of fifth grade when somebody ran over a dog and instead of stopping, just kept driving.

Rex was ten-feet away next to the chain link fence that surrounded the playground. The yelping and barking startled him as he looked over to see the mutt pulling itself with its two front legs. The back legs were mangled and left a trail of blood in the ice and snow packed street. Rex ran to the rescue and was carrying the dog to the principal’s office with blood squirting everywhere. The color of his parka had changed from a light brown to a deep purple. The boys were running up to him while the girls were screaming at the mangled site. The dog was screeching, thrashing, and yelping as blood squirted in all directions. One teacher who had playground duty ran to help Rex. The icy sidewalk prevented her from reaching Rex in time.

That was when Rex slipped on a patch of ice himself and flung the dog into the air directly under the tires of the Point Bus as it whizzed past him. There followed an eerie silence, except for the sound of Rex’s head being smacked hard on the frozen sidewalk.  He lay there twitching aimlessly. Girls threw up and boys yelled a simultaneous “Ah!” The teacher didn’t know what to do and apparently neither did anyone else. There was the dead dog carcass in the street and a half-dead kid flopping on the icy sidewalk like a fish out of water.

Dr. Melgard insisted Rex stay home from school for three days due to the concussion. He never missed another day of school all the way through to high school graduation. Plus, he never tried to save another dog.

“Hey what’s your name?”  I asked the kid who had his locker next to mine.

“What the hell is it to ya,” he replied.

“Oh nothing, I was just wondering what your name is. Mine’s Dave,” I told him.

“It’s Kosta.  Kosta Nicopolas. In the Flats they call me Mean Boy,” he said as he slammed the metal locker door and disappeared around the corner.

Holy Crap. I wanted to head for the toilet and throw up. Mean Boy, I thought as I swallowed the lump in my throat. I had heard about him since the third grade at Audubon. There were stories about Mean Boy being chained to a tree and attacking railroad cops that we all called Dicks. One legend was that he jumped off a railroad boxcar and hooked himself around the neck of a Dick collapsing the guy to the ground. The guy pulled his club out and hit Mean Boy five times in the back.  It had not affected that third grade kid who just scampered and crawled like a daddy-long leg spider under the slow moving train and ran away among the tattered houses known as the Flats.

"What's Beyond Those Nylons"

“What’s Beyond the Nylons?”

Homes located in the North End, like the schools, were heated either with fuel oil or coal. Some homes had no source of heat to combat the 20 degrees below zero, which was normal during the winter. Audubon used steam from the coal furnace in the basement. There were no storm windows on the school to block the north winds and whoever sat next to them shivered like some of our fathers who went a day without alcohol. The windows were six-feet tall and over three-feet wide. They were double decker style where one set was placed on top of the other. The bottom set was the only one that could open. The best part of these windows was “the stick.”

It was a three-foot long, rounded, piece of oak. On one end, the janitor, Merle, made a rubber handle for it, and the other end he’d fashioned had a ‘J-shaped’ hook. When the teacher left a room, we would scramble for the stick and pretend we were one of the Three Musketeers. I liked to think I was the pirate, Black Beard. While we were busy being adventurous, one kid squatted down and opened the massive wooden door two inches so he could stand guard and watch for the teacher to return. We would wave the pretend saber overhead and threaten other kids who tried to pry it from our hands.

I preferred using it to pretend stabbing my captors, who were naturally girls. They screamed like the irritating screeching sound of a train coming to a halt. There were always a couple of tattlers who exposed us. Boy, my old man could have had a hay-day with the tattling. If we had pulled antics like that at home, we would have beaten mercilessly.

Teachers had to step on a desk seat to reach the black metal clasps that locked the windows shut. They then used the stick to lock or unlock the window. Depending on the height of that teacher, she might have to get on her tiptoes and stretch or could stand flatfooted to reach the lock with the stick. I was thankful that my third grade teacher, Miss Phifner was short. I was also thankful for having a seat in the window row. She was young, she was pretty, and had great legs.

There she was balancing on her toes, knees straightened like a hurdler, arms out stretched overhead, and her tiny frame was arched backwards to reach the lock with the stick.  “Oh my God,” I thought as I about fell out of my chair leaning left to look up her dress. With my wolf eyes I slowly traced her nylons from her ankles up into her tightened calves and above those knees up into her slender thighs. At the end of the nylons was a three-inch swath of darker material held up with a white plastic clamp.

One time, to catch a better view, I leaned so far left that my desk and I crashed to the floor. The laughter and ensuing pandemonium in the classroom was greater than any swashbuckling sword fight. The noise vibrated the windows and it wasn’t long before the dreaded Miss Schroeder entered. She was slapping her opened left palm with (you guessed it) the wind-whipper. But I didn’t care as I was in paradise. Locked inside my desk lying sideways on the inlaid, oak floor I saw it. It was Miss Phifner’s garter belt.

I felt the hands of two of the biggest kids in class grab my desk from each side. They lifted me, and my desk in one piece, and placed it back in the correct position. Both kids were holding in giggles. I continued to crane my neck as slowly the awesome view disappeared from sight. The class was now silent, but Elsie Schroeder was not.

“Dave, this hurts me more than you. You know the position,” she said as she gave her palm one final smack before laying it to my backside.

I bent forward and grabbed my ankles. A small swatch of cloth protected my supple cheeks from the oak paddle. Ten hard licks - that was the rule. The class was sullen. I was thinking how that burn was nothing compared to what I got at home from either end of my dad’s belt, as welts began to raise on each little rump cheek. 

Elsie Schroeder spoke those dreaded words. “Now did we learn a lesson today, Dave?”

“Yes I did.” I responded while rubbing my cheeks and returned to my desk. I need to brace myself better against the desk. That was my lesson, I thought.

What the principal didn’t know was I wished the class had not laughed because I might have spotted Miss Phifner’s panties. I sure slept great that night.

So this fella walks into a bakery shop and asks the young lady for some raisin bread. She climbs the ladder and reaches for some bread and her dress opens up as she reaches high above for the item. He looks up her dress. On the way out he tells the next fella to order raisin bread. He does and also enjoys the view. On his way out he tells an old fella, wobbling with a cane to do the same. The young lady is still on the ladder and asks if his is raisin too. He responds, “No, but it’s a quivering a bit!” (Sorry folks, I can’t help myself)

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: PALS: "Twice a Day Confessions"

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: PALS: "Twice a Day Confessions": “Twice a Day Confessions” Jim Faber was a Catholic who was asked to leave Holy Trinity School because he was caught smoking...

PALS: "Twice a Day Confessions"

“Twice a Day Confessions”

Jim Faber was a Catholic who was asked to leave Holy Trinity School because he was caught smoking one too many times. It didn’t help that the Head Nun had it in for him. He put in more hours after school than Kosta, Rex, Tom or me combined. That nun made him wash the blackboards, slap the chalk from erasers, polish the wood floors, and sweep the sidewalk. He never knew what ticked her off so much, but she most certainly did not like him. 

We knew this kid long before he arrived at Jefferson.  Reputations grew quickly and faster, than Mickey Mantle sprinting for second base. Any insurrection against authority mushroomed the perpetrator into stardom. The legend goes that Jim walked into the office at Holy Trinity one morning and was greeted by the secretary saying, “Hello, Jim.  What can I do for you? Why are your cheeks all puffed out?”

With a huge explosion from his small lungs and tightened abdominal muscles he let go with a puff of smoke that nearly filled the area behind the counter. The secretary was bent over wiping her eyes and gagging for help. Jim leaned his left elbow up on the counter, propped his head against his hand and continued puffing away on his Marlboro like a James Cagney character in some crime movie. The ashes grew, as did the suspense.

The head nun, Sister Mary Louise came running out of her office with an oak pointer with a black rubber tip on the end. She shoved the choking secretary against the file cabinets almost knocking her to the floor and screamed at her to call Father Ralph immediately. Sister never turned Jim around to hit his butt. She whaled away at any body part that got in the way of the stick. She beat him with all her strength. Jim continued puffing away and spun his backside toward her. She continued pounding away until Father Ralph ran into the room and grabbed her right arm in mid-swing.

“What in God’s name is going on here,” he demanded.

“This heathen came into the office smoking. Yes, he walked right in here with that cigarette. I want him expelled. Why I want him excommunicated. The Holy Father in Rome needs to hear about this!” She screamed at the priest.

“All right everybody calm down. Margaret, I want you to call Jim’s mother and get her here now. Sister, you go somewhere and collect your composure. I suggest you go to chapel and pray for forgiveness for what you did to Jim.”

She fiddled with her rosary beads, squinted her eyes at Jim, and ground her teeth as she stormed out the door toward the chapel. She didn’t see the wink Jim gave her. If she had, the Holy Father in Rome might indeed have become involved in a murder case.

It seems earlier that day Jim had served morning mass with Father Ralph at ten minutes after seven before school began. All Catholic school kids had to attend mass everyday and attend confession. It was the third period when Jim’s class went to the eleven o’clock mass. Sister Mary Louise noticed he did not go to confession and demanded he do so. He told her about confessing earlier before school when he served mass. She twisted his left ear like ringing out a washcloth and demanded he go. He followed her orders.

“Bless me, Father for I have sinned. It has been four hours since my last confession.” He said.

“What? Why are you here, my son?” Father Ralph asked.

“Sister Mary Louise made me.”

“Well then, have you sinned in the last four hours?”

“Yes, Father I had impure thoughts about Sherry Kretchmeyer an hour ago.”

“So have I my son, say two Hail Marys and one Our Father.”

The more Jim thought about having to confess twice in one day and especially spill the beans about Sherry Kretchmeyer, the more ticked off he became. And so it was that he went to his locker, took out a hidden Marlboro and entered the office. It was the last time he smoked in that school. It was the last time he went to that school.

By the time Jim arrived at Jefferson the next day we all knew about the event. He was already a minor god in our eyes.  Kosta and I talked about him in homeroom. We had a new smoking buddy, but more importantly, Jim was an immediate friend as he too despised authority. 

Jim was the second biggest kid in our class behind Alan Meade who wrestled heavy weight and was our fullback on the football team. Jim was the first person I’d ever met who could talk without moving his upper lip much at all. That intrigued me and I also like the way he told jokes and stories each time we were together. I liked to make others laugh and so did Jim. He was a prankster who had naturally good looks, stood a head above all of us, and had bulging muscles from lifting weights with his older brother. He was an immediate hit with the girls. To seal our friendship, he appreciated my tip about sitting to the left side of the girls to sneak a peek.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Tom

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Tom: “Tom” “Whoosh” was the sound of the Linwood Bus as it stopped high above our heads while we clung to the limestone walls ...

Tom

“Tom”

“Whoosh” was the sound of the Linwood Bus as it stopped high above our heads while we clung to the limestone walls of the storm sewer. My new friend, Tom and I had earlier exhaled as much air as our tiny lungs would allow and wedged ourselves into the sewer beneath East 22nd Street in Dubuque, Iowa. The year was 1957. We were eight years old.

Tom was a skinny kid, with long black hair held down with Brylcream. He wore black-rimmed glasses and just like his Dad, he regularly pushed his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose, using his left index finger - even when it was not necessary. He was a friendly kid who cackled when he laughed, an almost devilish sound. It was easy to make him laugh. One of the sources of laughter for the both of us was his Dad.

One would never realize Bob was a former MP in the Army during WWII. Sure, his low, gruff voice would scare the crap out of a stranger. That kid, Randy from kindergarten would have dropped a full load if he ever met Bob. Tom’s Dad was the funniest adult I ever met. He was quick with a joke and was kind to everyone. I enjoyed pulling his trigger finger that made him fart. Often he would say, “Up your poop scoop too with a golden shovel.”

Tom and his family recently moved into the neighborhood from a small farming community named Sherrill. His mother was the kindest person I ever met. She would stop what she was doing, sit down and look in our eyes and listen to our stories. She would ask questions, and then she would laugh. It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for me. She cared about me and showed it. I felt safe in their home from the very first day.

Tom had two older sisters who also were quick to laugh. Especially when Bob answered the phone, “Stinky’s Fish Market, Stinky speaking.” Or “City Morgue. You stab ‘em, we slab ‘em.”

Both of them laughed at my jokes and like Tom’s mother, they would sit and listen to what I had to say. I liked them immediately. Little kids can tell when they are liked and when they are not.

Tom and his family lived in a duplex at 2126 Kniest Street. Across the street was one set of railroad tracks. When a train passed, all the dishes in the cupboard would rattle and we had to walk across the room and turn up the volume knob on the television. Tom was the only kid in the neighborhood who received an allowance. That was because his parents both worked. It was unusual for the mother to work back then. His mom worked night shift at the Dubuque Packing House and his dad worked the day shift at John Deere. It was Tom’s allowance that led us into the sewer.

We were armed and ready for war toward any unsuspecting adult driving down East 22^nd Street or walking on its sidewalks above our perch. Our weapons were bean shooters and our ammunition was a bag of uncooked, white beans. Tom used his thirty-five cents allowance to buy our weapons and ammo at Kress’s Confectionary Store.

One block away from Huey’s, the 150 year-old drain sewer caught the flow of rain and run-off from the entire North End. Fifteen feet from our perches was a flow of water that became an underground creek that emptied into the Mississippi River. Above us were cars and neighbors heading up towards Sacred Heart Catholic Church. Some went the other direction towards Kauffman and Central Avenues. We were safe. Not a soul knew we hid below looking for action. “Whoosh” was the sound again as the bus moved away from the curb on its way toward Linwood Cemetery and Xavier Hospital.

“Fire now!” Tom cackled as we both shot a line drive into the ankle of the lady who just departed the bus and into our war zone.

There was no DMZ.  Everybody was fair game. It didn’t matter the age, gender or their station in life. We hit her in the ankle with a white bean from our bean shooters while clinging to our cavern wall. She stopped to rub the right ankle with the top of her left shoe as if that would lessen the pain. She continued walking and we continued laughing.

That morning we played baseball at Audubon. The game was temporarily interrupted when the “ice-man” stopped on Johnson Street near first base. His 1940s truck had a bed that carried blocks of ice sitting on sawdust, and covered with a black, heavy tarp. We watched him use a huge set of tongs to snag the ice block and he carried it across the street and into a home. The family who lived there obviously had an icebox rather than a refrigerator. We knew we had less than one minute to jump onto the truck bed, use the ice pick, and break off chunks of ice. We never got caught.

Like always when ice was involved, Tom and I quit playing baseball and enjoyed sucking on our ice, while sitting on a rock wall across from Huey’s. It was refreshing to feel the cold water melt against our tongues on one end of the ice while the other end dripped on to our shirts. What a great way to beat the heat, I thought. It was because of the ice that we came up with the idea of crawling into the stinky, but cool sewer. We could be cool and have fun.

“Hey, do you feel that?” I asked. “It’s a train.” 

“Oh my gosh. Who would ever think it would shake the ground down here in the sewer. Let’s get off this wall and get out of the way in case the whole thing comes down.” Tom demanded. He jumped down, pushed his glasses up on his nose and went to the corner for safety.

A second later we were perched at the top of the limestone pathway that led to the flowing creek of wastewater. Crumbs and chunks of limestone shook, wiggled, and dropped onto us from the walls above, where we had been perched to hit that lady in the ankle. Our tiny chests rumbled to the squeal of the Milwaukee Road train as its wheels moved toward the Dubuque Packing House a half mile away. The dinging of the railroad bell echoed in our bunker beneath the street. The red flashes of the lights lit up the shadows where we hunkered down while the fumes from the waiting cars above began to enter our lungs. We coughed and gagged. We had no choice but to re-climb the wall again and peek our little heads out of the drain sewer’s opening. We were seeking fresh air.

“Holy Cow.” He exclaimed. “Look at all those cars and that one pick-up truck from Mulgrew’s Ice Company. They are just sitting there waiting to get smacked. Let’s get our weapons and fire away. Whoever gets the first ten hits wins.”

In an instant we were firing as our tongues pulled away from the straw-like opening and high velocity air pushed out against the bean waiting inside. We shot beans across the street at drivers waiting for the passing train. I tried to hit the driver of the coal truck but couldn’t reach him. Then I took aim at the guy in the Molo Oil Company truck. Missed again.

One guy took a drag off his Camel Cigarette as I hit him right in the lip and caused ashes and the lit end to fall inside the car and onto his pants. A better shot was never made. I could never do that again in a million years. He looked toward us but did not see his enemy. I saw him look in the rear view mirror. He looked at the hedges next to the house above us. He flicked his damaged cigarette out on to the street and rubbed his lip waiting for the railroad crossing to clear.

I heard the ping of Tom’s bean hit the door of Mulgrew’s Ice Truck. The driver didn’t flinch. So we both fired at him trying to hit him in the head. We tried arch shots, direct shots and even ricochet shots. The best we could do was hit his door. We couldn’t hit him directly. Without a head shot, boredom set in and we quit. We dropped to the cool cement below and heard the crossing-arm lift and the caution bells stop.  Eventually all traffic was back to its regular speed.

It would be two years when we were in the fifth grade that we returned to the same spot. It was never as much fun as the first time.

Tom and I made up our own words to songs and commercials. For the Lucky Strike slogan of L.S.M.F.T. (“Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco”) our version was “Loose Straps Mean Floppy Teats”

 This is a photo of the actual sewer we played in and shot people with our bean shooters. Note how the city placed a bar across the opening so other kids couldn't have the fun we had.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: "PALS": The Greatest Invention

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: "PALS": The Greatest Invention: “The Greatest Invention” We each had a project to create in the second grade. We were expected to stand in fr...

"PALS": The Greatest Invention

“The Greatest Invention”

We each had a project to create in the second grade. We were expected to stand in front of the class and talk about it. There was no way I could ask my alcoholic parents for help. I had to come up with my own idea. Flash cameras were quite the rage back then. It was fun to watch the big bulbs explode catching a piece of history. It was also fun to watch the people taking pictures burn their fingertips when removing the scalding hot and then useless bulbs. They would jockey the hot bulb back and forth between one hand and another. The seasoned photographers would quickly move the scalding bulb among their fingers and thumb on just one hand waiting for it to cool. I especially liked that part. The whole process reminded me of the St. Vitus Dance.

My idea was to make my own version of a new camera. The supplies included a shoebox, aluminum foil, paper grocery sacks, colored pencils, and a set of encyclopedias. I stole the foil from the lower third drawer of our kitchen cabinets to the left of the sink. I hid the foil inside my woolen parka that day as I walked the half block to Audubon. I cut through Mrs. Cierney’s yard and sat down in the snow with my back propped up against her dilapidated garage by the alley.

I had to hide out in there so I wouldn’t be discovered creating my camera. Older kids might beat me up and destroy my work. Other mothers might tell Ma and I would be in real trouble. I could possibly get a whipping from the Old Man. Each yard had clotheslines strung across the grass and the lines were on the long sticks with a ‘v’ cut into one end. It was the ‘v’ end that supported the line ladened with clothes during warm months. Had this project been given to us during those times I would have easily hid behind the clothes. That particular day all the poles were neatly tucked away in garages, garages so rickety that they were almost falling down. But like an engineer at Eastman Kodak, I was laser focused on my invention.

A few days earlier I had taken paper grocery sacks and cut them to fit perfectly into the shoebox. Then I stole some of Ma’s carbon paper and carefully traced pictures of animals I found in our set of Encyclopedia Britannica. After that I used the colored pencil set I got for Christmas from some nice guy at the Elk’s Lodge. He adopted my family because we were poor. Those folks at the Lodge sure were kind to us, and a lot more families like us. They were a real Godsend. All of us kids in my family had nice gifts that year.

I created an ‘ABCs of Animals’. Each letter had a corresponding picture attached to it with tape. There I was with twenty-six pieces of old grocery sacks cut perfectly to fit into the shoe box. I colored each one, never once going over the traced lines. I placed each animal picture in order from A-Z into the box. I was bursting with pride that day sitting in the snow and putting it all together. The wind and sub-zero temperature never daunted me a bit! I crinkled the aluminum foil to give it the appearance of a futuristic camera. I covered the shoebox - lid and all. I ran to school knowing I would be the best in the class. I hung my winter coat on the hook in the coatroom put my mittens in the pockets, and removed my black rubber boots. Sitting in the back of the room, I could hardly wait for my turn to share my invention with the class.

Right after the pledge and we started the big day. God, I was bored when all the other kids got up and did what I thought were stupid things. I felt that way because of “critical thinking” I learned a year earlier.

One kid made an ant killer with a magnifying glass he won from a Cracker-Jack box. All of us boys knew that old trick. Betsy demonstrated how to set a table correctly. That also was stupid. We were taught that activity at home. She even brought in a set of little dishes. I heard Miss Miller say, ”Dave, it is your turn. Come to the front.”

I walked past Anna Schultz who stuck her tongue out at me while I blew a puff of air through my pursed lips in her direction. Her tongue trick didn’t offend me. I was going to be the best inventor that day.

I explained my ‘ABCs of Animals’ and began to pull them from my “camera box.” However, there was just one problem. I had wrapped the entire box in aluminum foil. I should have wrapped the big part of the box and then the top separately. My fingers fumbled as I tried prying off the lid. I was so upset I just ripped the lid off. There it was, my perfect invention with chunks of aluminum foil hanging off the cover. Parts of my camera box were bare of any covering at all. I tore some of the foil off the lid and attempted to patch the bare spots on the box. A roomful of snickers began. I bit my cheek and looked around to see who thought this was funny. They would go on my enemy-list for sure the next time we had playground. After making the corrections I was ready.

I told them, “A is for ape,” as I made a clicking sound with my tongue as if to take a picture.

The entire class including, Miss Miller roared as I held up a zebra. “Damn, Son of a Bitch!”  I thought as I instantly realized I placed all animals into the box in the wrong order. I was a failure. Those cuss words were learned from the older boys who hung around at the elm tree on our playground. I also heard those words nightly from my dad at supper. That was my first attempt at public speaking. I was a failure. The laughter of all the kids and the teacher threw off my concentration and I fumbled my way to the end. Nobody clapped that day for me.

I was especially upset with Miss “Turkey” Miller for laughing at me. She was our teacher and should have known better. The reason we called her “Turkey” was her skin texture. It was all wrinkled and hung off her face and drug across her collar when she turned her head right and left. That skin was so heavy it pulled her jaw into the open position and that was where it remained. She had a long narrow face with the mouth stuck open and lip stick sometimes on her teeth.

She was another spinster schoolteacher who stunk. Whenever she’d lean over me to check my printing I’d hold my breath. The perfume was more than a boy of seven should have to bear. When I did have to breathe, I developed a technique of raising my tongue to the roof of my mouth and sucked air in without it going through my nose first. I called it my “Stink Stopper”. I shared it with all the boys on playground. I saw them doing my Stink Stopper whenever they were too close to Turkey Miller. I was glad I could help out.

I never noticed the fumes of dead animals from the Pack that permeated our neighborhood. But I sure enough noticed and didn’t like those nasty vapors of “P. U. Perfume” those elementary school teachers wore. I wondered if that’s why they always carried a lace hanky stuck in their sleeves or hooked to their bra straps. It could have been used as a barrier to avoid another teacher’s perfume odor. I guess maybe, I should have taught the teachers my Stink Stopper as well.

At 3:30 that afternoon I drug myself up the alley towards home when I came upon Mrs. Johnson burning trash in a fifty gallon barrel at the back side of her yard. The snow was blowing sideways and the only comfort I felt was turning my head to the left inside of my parka. I had to look with my right eye through the parka so I didn’t trip. I’m not certain if it was humiliation from my camera disaster, or the Iowa winter that made me feel awful. Inside that hooded garment and all alone, I found comfort.

I asked Mrs. Johnson if I could throw something into her burn barrel. She kindly obliged. With mitten-covered hands I ripped and tore all the photos I had in the box. Like a Harlem Globetrotter, I did slam-dunks with each shred of paper I found in my small grip. Some scraps of my artwork fell to the ground and were pulverized by my black rubber boots. Other pieces fell into the opening of my boots that were not fastened, because I had been in a hurry to leave school that day.

There was melted snow and mud that surrounded the hot, rusty barrel. I slipped and slid as I cussed like no seven year-old in the history of mankind. Mrs. Johnson just stood there with her toothless mouth wide open and knew better than to say a thing. I was probably a miniature of her husband. We heard him beating her on a regular basis in other seasons when the windows were opened. The shoebox and papers burned away into ashes. The aluminum foil lost its luster and would not go away. The radiant dream of my special camera was now tarnished like the singed foil. My memory of that dreadful event was like the aluminum foil.

I have another aluminum foil memory that happened the following spring at Mother’s Day. I cut little pictures out of magazines, and using flower and water I made a paste. I then pasted the pictures on to a piece of paper titled “Why I Love My Mom.” Each picture represented something different. I then crinkled the foil and pulled it back straight. I curled the edges and ends around my pictures to keep them in place. Using discarded wrapping from a previous holiday, I wrapped it and gave to Ma. She opened it and said, “Uh-Huh.”

Later I found my gift wadded up into a ball and stuck down in the garbage. Despite all the years that have passed, I still think of those events periodically when I use aluminum foil.